Dallas Wiebe, p.2
THINKING WITH RABBITS
Fol-de-rol, you rattlebrained
discombobulation of skin,
you dismembered version
of the last supernatural flux.
Fol-de-rol, and singing of grayness
in the pusillanimous nebulae
that Jack built on the banks
of the Ohio credit and loan.
Fol-de-rol’ing, old contusions
on the latitudes of right extension,
on the meridian of half-skinny
carpets and take-home pay.
Just think, if you may,
what dangerous inversions can be had
in the soft drops of the hustle.
Just wonder, if you can,
what sovereign demarcations
lie along the heartbeat.
Just believe, if you want to,
what justifications fathom
the ebullient claims of fathers
who lost their knocks
on the cliffs.
Many are the weary
who range in age from zero to none.
Many are the hungry
who range in size from small to absent.
Many are the meek
who range in fame from unknown to never were.
Wash off the soot of high thinking.
Dry off the ashes of right minds.
Put on the dipsomania
of cattle at crossroads,
of horses at hotels,
of crowds of gassed heads
at county fairs.
There’s something to be said
for the delinquency in salvation.
What it is is unknown.
Only the cardiology of the dead
spells out the last verification.
Open your door, Stella.
The rain has stopped.
Fol-de-rol, you rattlebrained
discombobulation of skin,
you dismembered version
of the last supernatural flux.
Fol-de-rol, and singing of grayness
in the pusillanimous nebulae
that Jack built on the banks
of the Ohio credit and loan.
Fol-de-rol’ing, old contusions
on the latitudes of right extension,
on the meridian of half-skinny
carpets and take-home pay.
Just think, if you may,
what dangerous inversions can be had
in the soft drops of the hustle.
Just wonder, if you can,
what sovereign demarcations
lie along the heartbeat.
Just believe, if you want to,
what justifications fathom
the ebullient claims of fathers
who lost their knocks
on the cliffs.
Many are the weary
who range in age from zero to none.
Many are the hungry
who range in size from small to absent.
Many are the meek
who range in fame from unknown to never were.
Wash off the soot of high thinking.
Dry off the ashes of right minds.
Put on the dipsomania
of cattle at crossroads,
of horses at hotels,
of crowds of gassed heads
at county fairs.
There’s something to be said
for the delinquency in salvation.
What it is is unknown.
Only the cardiology of the dead
spells out the last verification.
Open your door, Stella.
The rain has stopped.